The one issue that had bothered her from the beginning, however, wormed its way unwelcome again through her thoughts. She had mentioned it to him before, but she didn’t know if he realized the level of her concern. Rather than push it back, she determined to give voice to it so there would be no regrets, no misunderstandings. “Max, I . . .” she sighed, dreading it.
He smoothed a fingertip over her eyebrow and down her cheek to her jaw where he softly traced a path to her lower lip. “You bite right here when you are either worried or focused, did you know that?”
“You’re distracting me.”
“Yes, because I am sensing reservation in you about something, and I would rather it go away.”
“It is about you, though.”
“What about me?” He dipped his head and traced a soft path along her neck with his lips.
“You were trapped into a marriage you didn’t want,” she finally blurted. “I, at least, knew what I was doing, even though it was pretend. You were out of your head.”
She felt him smile against her skin, “Did I, or did I not, promise to love, honor, and cherish you? I remember that very specifically.”
She frowned. “You do?”
“I do.” He lifted his head and smiled into her eyes. “I may have been fuzzy, my Valentine, but I knew exactly what I was saying. I also know that when I awoke the next morning, I was angry at the cruel joke fate had played on me. I had met a woman I was falling in love with, someone I wanted to marry, to bear my children, and my union with her was a sham.”
She caught her breath and held it.
“The only reason I was beside myself when I learned we were truly married is that I felt as though your wings had just been clipped. You were now caged with me, when what you truly wanted was a life you could design for yourself.” He closed his eyes and kissed her forehead. “Until ten minutes ago, I still believed it.” He exhaled and kissed her again, slanting his lips across hers in long, drugging caresses that robbed her of all coherent thought.
She wound her arms tightly around his neck, and he lifted her up against him, continuing his gentle assault on her senses. When he finally allowed her up for air, he smiled, and there was a gleam in his eye she had seen often enough but now fully appreciated it for what it was.
“I have only one complaint,” he told her.
“And that would be?”
“You’re wearing too many clothes.”
Max stood with his wife in their hotel room early the following evening, grinning like a fool. She actually wanted him to teach her the fundamentals of boxing. “No. Like this. You must keep your guard up; keep your hands close to your face or your opponent will see an opening and get you right . . . here.” He tapped his knuckles just under the side of her chin.
“Yes, right.” She frowned and caught her lip between her teeth with a nod. “Like this, then?”
He was quite proud of himself for resisting the urge to sweep her off her feet and cut short their lesson. She was adorable, dressed in a corset blouse, drawers that came to a ruffled end at the top of her knee, and a pale pink corset with ribbons and bows. Her long, black hair fell in waves around her face and over her shoulders, cascading nearly to her waist. He knew from firsthand experience that it was thick and as soft as silk.
Feeling exceptionally clever, he devised a way to get her into his arms and still maintain the façade of instruction. He moved behind her and wrapped his arms around hers, holding her tightly curled fists in just the right place. “And now,” he murmured, “hold this hand here, and jab with this one. Like so.”
She looked over her shoulder at him as he guided her through a small series of movements. One brow was raised, her mouth turned up at the corner. “Is this the method you employ when you instruct all those who enter your gyms?”
He grinned. “This is a technique I reserve for private lessons.”
She laughed, and he slowly guided her, speaking softly as they moved together. “The basic form is changing, you see. Only recently have boxers begun keeping the hands up close to the face, the stance leaning slightly forward. Shoulders a bit hunched.”
“How was it done before?”
“Back straight, arms and fists out, striking and retreating, attempting to keep the head back and out of the way.”
“Who taught you all of this?”
He smiled grimly. “Dr. Reginald Henry.”
She gasped and came to a stop, turning herself around in his arms. “No! I cannot imagine that man finding the wherewithal to fight his way out of a wet paper sack!”
“He didn’t teach me how, but he became the reason I learned how. He was a bully, and he teased Quincy relentlessly. Quincy was smarter than Henry, you see, and Quincy and I were from that family in the village, the one everybody pities and holds up as an example to their children of what not to do.”
His brow wrinkled, but he forced himself to allow her a glimpse into his early life. “My father was thrown into debtors’ prison when we were quite small. He never did come out alive. My mother sewed and cleaned houses to feed us, but it was a bleak existence. She was devoted to us and really had no time for anything else, but someone spread a nasty rumor about her, which branded her the town harlot. She died of consumption when I was ten and Quincy was twelve.”
Her expressive face showed her sympathy, and her eyes filled.
“By this time, we had some local schooling, but for years, Henry and Quincy were at odds, and Quincy could never keep his mouth shut. Nor could he defend himself.” He shook his head and felt the wry smile creep up of its own accord. “So, that became my primary occupation—fighting to be the muscle behind Quincy’s mouth.”
She frowned. “I look forward to meeting him and giving him a piece of my mind.”
He shook his head, oddly touched by her defense of him. He shifted her fists into position again and stood opposite her in proper stance. “It worked well for me in the end. We were both sent to state schools. Quincy graduated and continued his studies, becoming a doctor of archaeological studies. He even wrote a book on proper methodology in the field.” There was pride in Max’s voice, and he knew it.
“Henry also became a doctor in the field, but their approaches to the discipline are vastly different and they remain enemies to this day.” He tapped his knuckles lightly against hers and circled slowly, smiling at the image of her—feminine and small—with her fists raised against his.
“And while Quincy and Dr. Henry earned their advanced degrees, you became a professional pugilist?”
He nodded. “Took a few heavyweight titles and fought until I realized my brain probably wouldn’t be much use in the long run if I continued indefinitely.”
She narrowed her eyes. “From the way other men speak about you, and to you, I gather these titles of yours were quite an accomplishment?”
He shrugged, oddly self-conscious, “I suppose.”
She shot him a flat look.
“Yes, they were,” he admitted. “It was important to me. All the more so because now boxing is illegal in most places because of the gambling element. It’s why my gyms have consistent patronage—I stay above reproach and am very firm about meeting all legal standards so my doors are not closed.”
She smiled. “And now you have how many ‘Gentleman Maxwell’s Salons’?”
“Possibly five, if the Bellini brothers have their way.”
Valentine laughed, “They are a persuasive lot.”
He shook his head and dodged just a bit, reaching past her guard to tap her chin with his fingertips. He chuckled when she scowled at him and for good measure stuck his chin out for her to tap as well. “I was quite convinced you were taken with David Bellini. Those men are a handsome lot.”
She grinned. “Are they? I hadn’t noticed.”
He growled and grabbed her around the waist, tickling her until she begged for mercy, her arms tight around his neck. Which he figured worked to his advantage, especially as he hadn’t planned the maneuver.
She smiled and kissed him, “I had eyes for you alone, Mr. Maxwell. So much so that I was tongue-tied and gave you the entirely wrong impression.”
“Very well. I shall attempt to rein in my jealousy.”
She shook her head and rested her forehead on his. “I love you so very much it quite overwhelms me.”
“Likewise, dear lady. In spades.”
She sighed. “We’ve barricaded ourselves in this room all day long, and we must check on Contessa.”
“Must we? I’m certain we’d have heard from her if she had need of us. We’ve already ordered breakfast, lunch, and tea from the kitchens. May as well finish with supper in here.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “No. And you’re not going to distract me—this time I am getting dressed, and we are going out into the world.”
“I don’t think it wise. Everybody will know what we’ve been doing up here, and it might prove too embarrassing for you.”
She smacked his shoulder and rolled her eyes at him, “Release me, scoundrel, or I shall be forced to use my newly acquired boxing skills on your handsome self.”
He sighed, knowing she was not to be dissuaded. And she was in the right of it. His entire purpose in the beginning had been to see to Contessa’s welfare, and thus far he’d managed to get himself violently ill and then married.
Valentine slipped away from him and went into the washroom. “I have been reading the Shepheard’s Hotel handbook. Supper tonight is in mixed company, therefore, you are to wear a white tie with your formal dinner attire.”
He grimaced. He had forgotten The Rules. Shepheard’s prided itself on being a reflection of polished European society. “And if I were dining with gentlemen only?” Max removed the shirt he’d thrown on earlier with his trousers to answer the door to the kitchen employee who’d delivered food.
“A black cravat,” Valentine called from the washroom, “which I think looks rather more dashing than a white tie, but I shall not presume to dictate to Shepheard’s.” She poked her head around the corner. “I have been meaning to tell you, though, this level of accommodations—I certainly do not expect it to continue. We’ve traveled first class this entire voyage because of Contessa, but I don’t imagine, when spending your own funds, you would do it so lavishly.”
His mouth dropped open, “You think Contessa has funded my accommodations on this trip?”
She nodded slowly. “Is that not the case? Max, you’ve been spending your own money?” A look of dismay crossed her face, and she entered the bedroom. “Love, you cannot, you mustn’t think I expect—”
“Sweet woman, how I do love you.”
Her brows knit. She was clearly bewildered.
“Because you did not pursue me for my money.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, my dear, I have money.”
“I imagined you had carved a comfortable life for yourself, but, surely, this much extravagance is, well, extravagant!”
He offered a half-smile and rubbed the back of his neck. “I told you about my father and mother.”
She nodded.
“I determined when my father died in prison that I would never be poor as an adult. That, as soon as I could, I would build my own little empire with whatever skills I possessed. The prize fighting purse was substantial. I hired a sound solicitor to invest for me, and when I opened my first gym, I realized there was a high demand for it. Subscription fees began rolling in, I added to the facility, and the next thing I knew, I had a waiting list to join. One gym opened after another, and then another—”
She crossed the floor and wrapped her arms around his waist. “And the little boy who defended his older brother made good on his vow to himself. You are an amazing man, Octavian Maxwell.”
“Blast,” he muttered. “That is how you know, my dear, that I truly wanted to marry you that night. I signed my entire name on that certificate.”
She laughed.
Valentine found dinnertime delightful. They gathered in the large dining room, which was equipped with three long rows of tables and accommodated over a hundred guests. She and Max had found Contessa, who clasped Val close and murmured congratulations and words of happiness for making a decision about her future and summoning the bravery to lay it before her husband.
There were others Valentine recognized from the steamship passage, and conversation was light and joyful. Her husband laid his hand scandalously on her thigh beneath the tablecloth, and all felt right with the world. They were nearing the final course when a hotel employee approached with a telegram for Max marked “Urgent.”
A sense of dread settled over Valentine’s heart, and she waited until Max finished reading before deciding whether or not she should panic. “What is it?” she whispered, unable to keep still. “Is our marriage not legal? Is something amiss with the paperwork?”
He knit his brow and looked at her, puzzled. “No, Valentine, this has nothing to do with us. Although,” he added as an afterthought, “if that were the case we would simply find the first available man of the cloth to do it again.”
She beamed. “We would?”
“Of course we would. Unless you’ve changed your mind.”
She smiled, content. “Never.” She glanced at the telegram in his hand, realizing it still read “Urgent” and she was ignorant of the contents. “So?” She nodded at the paper.
He leaned forward to include Contessa in the conversation. “My brother traced the thefts to two young English dandies who have worked on his dig for the past four months. From what I can piece together here, they escaped this morning with another batch of artifacts and are headed here to Cairo to deliver to their employer.”
“Who shall we alert first?” Contessa asked, “And who is the employer?”
Max’s lips tightened. “Dr. Reginald Henry.”
Valentine gasped. “I doubt it was a coincidence he was on the same route as you, Max, just as you suspected.”
“Even if it was, as soon as he saw me, he had to have known I was on my way to help Quincy.” Max crushed the telegram in his fist. “I have detested that man for a very long time.”
Contessa exhaled deeply, “Very well, then, we shall notify hotel management firstly.”
“Yes,” Val added, “but I remember him telling The Trio that he was to be here for only one night. He should have left for Luxor this morning—he had reserved a dahabeeyah through Cook’s. It was supposedly quite set.”
“Or, that may have been a ruse. If those two men from the dig are on their way here, Henry must also still be here. My guess is he’s stockpiling the artifacts in a central location. I don’t know who he sells to, but he’s clearly preparing something substantial or he wouldn’t be here in person.”
Contessa nodded. “I shall contact the Italian and British Consulates. They will work with the local authorities.”
“Suppose we ask the concierge if Henry is still a registered guest?” Valentine asked Max.
He frowned. “I will do that, but you must stay with Contessa.”
“I will not stay with Contessa. If you don’t take me with you, I’ll simply follow on my own.”
A muscle worked in Max’s jaw.
“There is no need to worry. I certainly won’t try to use my newfound boxing skills on him, for heaven’s sake. But, two sets of eyes are better than one. I can help you find him.”
Max shook his head but held out his hand to her, and they left the room. They quickly made their way through the corridor and main hall to the manager’s offices where they learned, after Max encouraged the man to speak by opening his wallet, that Dr. Henry had not left for Luxor, nor was the concierge aware of any plans to that effect.
When pressed, he also admitted Dr. Henry had hired the services of two locals who had been banned from Shepheard’s, and that the two often dined at an outdoor restaurant several doors down.
Max and Valentine exited the hotel’s front doors and hurried through the covered portico, d
own the wide stone front steps, and out onto Kamil Street. Max held her hand tightly, “Again, you will remain well out of sight if something happens.”
She readily agreed, slightly stunned he hadn’t barricaded her inside the hotel. They reached the end of Shepheard’s outdoor terrace when Val spied The Trio. Simultaneously, Max tensed and halted.
“It’s Henry,” Max released her hand. “Wait here.”
Val watched as Max crossed the street and slowly approached a small group of people some distance away. Carriages crossed the street and obstructed her view, and when it was clear again, she watched in horror as Max fought two very large men while Dr. Henry escaped, running down the street.
Val spun to the terrace, which was raised several feet above the sidewalk. “Chauncey,” she hissed. The young man put his head over the railing and looked at her, bemused but then recognition dawning, “Mrs. Maxwell!”
“Come with me, quickly!” Valentine demanded. “Dr. Henry has stolen Egyptian artifacts, and his two goons are beating Max!”
Alfred and Colin’s heads appeared over the railing as well.
“You, Alfred, run and alert the concierge. Colin and Chauncey, come with me. We must stop Dr. Henry.”
The two men vaulted over the railing, and Alfred ran for the hotel’s front doors. As they crossed the street, Colin paused. “I shall help Mr. Maxwell.”
Val’s and Chauncey’s expressions must have been identical in their skepticism. Colin scowled. “I can at least distract one of them long enough to fight me so he can take down the other!”
Chauncey’s brows shot high. “You’ll be killed, man!”
Val nodded simultaneously, but said, “Good man, Colin.” She then grabbed Chauncey’s arm, and the two of them dashed down the street after Henry, whose coattails were just visible as he slipped behind a building. Val looked at Max as they rushed past, relieved to see Colin jumping into the fray.
Val and Chauncey followed Henry, and she saw him slip into a doorway at the end of an alley. She pulled on Chauncey’s arm, quite proud that she wasn’t as breathless as the fit young man. They rounded the corner and skidded to a stop at the doorway, Chauncey just ahead of Valentine, when she heard a loud pop and Chauncey dropped to the ground, clutching his leg.
From Cairo, With Love (Timeless Romance Single Book 1) Page 10
